


Turning Tables

by aliensundermybed, Nana_41175



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Romance, Seduction, lots of flirting, some drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:46:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26679190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliensundermybed/pseuds/aliensundermybed, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nana_41175/pseuds/Nana_41175
Summary: 00Q AU fic featuring Bond as the Quartermaster and Q (Quincey Walker) as the new 007. Bond has retired from the double-O program after losing his wife, Tracy, and suffering from partial amnesia and a bad knee, but his vast experience in the field and unparalleled knowledge with weapons lead him to switch to Q branch where he is now the Quartermaster. Enter the new 007. Will Bond allow him to make him feel and love again?
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 54
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author’s Notes:** Hey everyone! Welcome to another 00Q AU fic, this time featuring Quartermaster!Bond and 00 agent!Q. It is co-written with the brilliant **[Aliensundermybed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliensundermybed/gifts)** and based on her great drawings. Beta read by the lovely **[Christinefromsherwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinefromsherwood/pseuds/christinefromsherwood)**!

Check out Alien’s gorgeous art [here](https://twitter.com/Dramaticatart) and we hope you enjoy this story! There will be some OOC as Bond and Q switch roles. Bond's back story is lifted in part from the Fleming books, On Her Majesty's Secret Service and You Only Live Twice. Do let us know what you think!

* * *

007 stepped into the gilded ballroom, svelte and impeccably dressed in a tuxedo and with a drink in hand. His green gaze, deceptively mild, swept over the chattering crowd until he found who he was looking for.

“He’s here,” he murmured into his earpiece.

“Whatever you do, don’t put your hand to your ear,” came the reply, almost in a low growl.

“Bloody Christ,” 007 whispered, briefly casting his eyes heavenward as he made his way smoothly to his mark. “What do you take me for, Bond?”

“This is your first mission, after all. And you should be addressing me as Quartermaster. Or Q.”

“If you’d care to treat me as a proper double-O agent first,” 007 replied, completely unruffled.

There was a grumpy silence on the other end as 007 made his approach, smiling as he extended his hand to the rogue arms dealer he’d been tailing for the better part of two weeks.

“James,” he purred in his posh voice, lightly tinged with a French accent. “So good to see you again.”

“Likewise, pet,” said the heavy-set man, small beady eyes running over 007’s form lasciviously. “So glad you can make it.”

There came a small huff of breath from his earpiece, and 007 almost smiled. It could mean anything, though he briefly wondered if Bond minded that the mark shared his name. Probably not, but he was curious enough to try out a hunch. Later, then.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he said aloud as he sipped at his drink, surveying the room with a bored, languid gaze.

Four, possibly five bodyguards. He could take them on, he reasoned, though he would prefer it if things could be simplified.

He leaned in to whisper into the man’s ear. The man smiled and nodded, reaching into his pocket to produce his key card.

“Go on up and make yourself comfortable, pet,” he said. “I’ll join you in the suite shortly.”

007 kissed the man lightly on the cheek and headed out. 005 would have the ballroom to herself for now.

“You’re smiling,” Bond said into his ear when he was alone in the lift.

“Care to hazard a guess as to why?”

“I’m sure I have no idea,” came the gruff reply. “And anyway, don’t lose sight of your goal. The USB, then take him out.”

“Bond, Bond,” 007 tsked lightly. “Ye of such little faith.”

“He’s far too well-guarded for you to slip even by a centimeter,” argued the Quartermaster.

“In short, you think I can’t handle a honeypot mission, Bond?” he inquired, gently.

There was a short silence, then: “We’d rather it not come to that.”

007 smirked. “Of course not, but I have a feeling that USB isn’t going to be easy to find so I’ll just have to tick off playing the Boy Toy from my credentials list, and you’ll just have to sit back and enjoy the show.”

* * *

Bond stood behind the console he’d taken over from his minion, arms crossed over his chest and earphones securely plugged in. This was so he could spare everyone the task of listening in to what was coming next. That was his argument, anyway; not that anyone cared to cross him.

007 had got it wrong, but he had no intention of setting the record straight anytime soon. Bond did not doubt his abilities at all, though he supposed it would be far better not to let the man realize that he was being a tad overprotective.

And it was not just 007, Bond reasoned to himself. He was naturally protective of all his agents.

Still, a job had to be done.

He briefly switched to 005 while 007 waited in the arms dealer’s suite, making sure that everything was alright, that James Morgan Peterson wasn’t going up to his suite with a slew of bodyguards or anyone else.

“All clear,” Bond finally said as he switched back to 007. “He’s on his way up.”

007 merely gave a noncommittal hum as he knocked back the rest of his drink. “Very well,” he said.

The words were out of his mouth before Bond could stop himself: “007. Good luck.”

There was a startled pause before a soft breath of laughter sounded at the other end, low and somehow intimate. “Why, thank you, Quartermaster.”

Bond wasn’t ready to address the unusual snarl of emotions that he was feeling. It wasn’t so much anxiety as unease that led the pack.

Was it because he’d only met Quincey Walker—the new 007—so recently, when he’d briefed him two weeks ago, and did not know what to make of him? He found it hard to square his initial impression of the young man with the contents of his file.

Yet believe in the contents of 007’s file he must, even as he remembered bits and pieces of their contentious conversation on the day they met.

 _Because you still have spots,_ he’d retorted when Walker had calmly called him out on what he’d perceived as Bond’s less-than-enthusiastic reception of his person. Instantly he’d realized it was the wrong thing to say, even if the man were indeed the youngest double-O ever appointed.

No, Bond had just been thrown off balance for the first time in years, and he’d not liked it. He’d not liked the feeling of not being able to place this man, not when he’d seen his pictures on file and realized the real man was altogether different.

The way his features were shifting continually; he was like a chameleon which, Bond supposed, would help him greatly in his new and demanding role; but that was not entirely it as well.

Bond had not expected him to be quite beautiful up front, and at the mere sight of this man, Bond had found himself on high alert and raising all his defenses.

 _There,_ he’d admitted it to himself, he thought grumpily, hands curling into fists against the soft fabric of his cardigan as he kept his arms crossed over his chest. _Of all the bloody, preposterous things!_

He ought to be used to beauty, masculine and feminine. He’d been a great connoisseur, once upon a time. Besides, the double-Os were supposed to come in all shapes and sizes, with all manner of talents and abilities, but he’d taken one look at this young man and felt like a clunky, scaly dinosaur. He briefly wondered what Alec Trevelyan thought of Walker. He’d be sure to ask during their next drinking session.

He focused his attention back to 007 as the door to the suite opened and his mission got underway, and it did not take long for Bond to realize that he’d worried over nothing. In fact, 007 was quite good—good enough to elicit some eyebrow raising from Bond, and that was saying something.

Really, he ought to just step aside, or mute the audio for a while. He doubted 007 would need him in his ear at this point. So what was he doing, unable to put the headphones down and listening, enthralled, as the moans intensified?

 _“James. Ahh, James, James,”_ gasped 007, and Bond felt something grab at his chest, make him jerk involuntarily. He had to glance around surreptitiously to make sure nobody was paying any attention to him.

So this was what he’d come down to, after years in the field and a brief but legendary run as a double-O agent himself. He’d been in Q branch long enough to gather rust.

What was he doing, waiting and hardly breathing, listening intently to his agent as he set about disarming the mark, setting the man at his fatal ease before putting a bullet to his head and making off with the USB that was on his person. As if he’d not seen this done a thousand times by other agents, as if he himself had never done it.

Bond finally relaxed a bit when 007 announced curtly, “Mark down. Object acquired.”

Things progressed very quickly then. Bond went back to work, coordinating with the rest of the team and making sure the coast was clear as 007 made good his escape. There would be no bodyguards outside the suite or anywhere else as 007 made his way down the service lifts to the bowels of the hotel. He finally emerged from one of the work entrances, dressed in nondescript clothes and a baggy coat, his dark hair an elegant mess—just another pedestrian on the street. Bond could make him out from one of the CCTV feeds from the street cams.

And then 007 turned, looked straight at Bond’s CCTV camera and winked before he nonchalantly crossed the road and got into the designated vehicle waiting for him.

Bond let out a sigh of relief when it was all over and was amazed, not to mention a little horrified, to realize he had been holding his breath the whole time.

That, and the fact that he was hard inside his trousers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes:** Aaand here's the second chapter! Thanks very much to **[Christinefromsherwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinefromsherwood/pseuds/christinefromsherwood)** for the great beta! Alien said M=Moneypenny and I said yes, she'll make a good M in this timeline and it shall be done! Enjoy and do let us know what you think!

* * *

His knee ached.

That was how he knew—without even leaving his bed—that he was waking up to a full day of rain. There was nothing like rainy days to make him feel his age acutely and there were a lot of those days in London.

He also knew, without glancing at the digital clock on his bedside table, that it was still early. Everything was shrouded in layers of darkness. He glanced at the clock’s luminous figures anyway and just barely managed to make out 5 a.m. He sighed and closed his eyes again, measuring time for a while with his slightly raspy breathing.

He’d awakened abruptly from a dream. He could not tell whether it was good or bad, only that it involved Tracy, and that always meant the dreams were bittersweet. In all his dreams, he knew that his wife was dead.

Dead because of him.

After a few minutes, he threw the bed covers aside and sat up, knowing sleep would elude him now. He groped for his glasses on the bedside table and donned them, taking care not to put too much weight on his creaky knee as he stood up. Glasses or no, the room was too dark for him to see anything; he navigated his way to the door with the expertise of a blind man in complete familiarity with his surroundings.

As always, the first order of business was to feed the cats, who snaked around his shins, meowing plaintively as he stood in his kitchen, making coffee. They would have woken him up soon enough anyway. That task done, he threw himself into his morning exercises. Still, it was only half past six when he was finished.

Behind his windows, the rain was never-ending, falling in sheets against the thick glass and giving the world outside a grey, unhappy look.

Bond peered out, his thoughts far away, to limitless blue skies and expansive oceans, and balmy breezes sifting through coconut and palm trees. If he concentrated hard enough, he could remember some details of past trips to the Carribean, Sardinia, the Seychelles... he could put a finger anywhere on a map and he was sure he’d been there. But that was a lifetime ago.

There was no reason for him not to go back to any of these places when a chance for a holiday cropped up, he reasoned, except being Quartermaster of MI6 rendered these chances next to impossible, and he did not want to indulge in the painful memories, or what was left of them. One did not enjoy these settings half as much anyway when one was being shot at and chased during missions.

He turned away from the window to begin his day with a shower and a simple, spartan breakfast. He would be the first to arrive at Q branch, as usual, but there was an entire block of meetings to get through at Whitehall come midday, and the usual tasks of tending to the needs of his minions and agents in the afternoon.

He was going to be very busy. Busy enough not to be thinking of the slim, dark-haired young man who’d winked at him saucily through a CCTV camera and who was to arrive from Brazil sometime in the late afternoon.

Yes, he was going to be busy enough to have to pass 007’s debriefing on to somebody else. He’d be sure to endorse him to R, then.

* * *

“So what do you think of our new 007?” asked M, taking advantage of their free time as they walked down the hallway toward their meeting.

Bond snorted. “He’s a disarming young man,” he said wryly, “but I think you already know that.”

M raised a dark brow at him. “Do I detect a hint of a complaint there somewhere?” she asked, lips tilting into a mischievous smile. “I rather think he outdid himself on his first mission.”

“Congratulations,” said Bond, his tone still dry. “Only you could have chosen him.”

“You mean to say, only a woman could have chosen him,” M corrected him. “And yes, I think I made the right choice with this one. I hope this isn’t a problem for you, but we’ve got to adapt to the changing times. The era of bulky, all-around supermen has come and gone.”

“He’s far too young, Moneypenny,” Bond merely said as he glanced at her.

“He’s not that young, and times have changed. Nowadays we’d be considered far too old when we started,” M said without heat. “Let’s give him room to stretch and grow into his role. He’s a specialist and he’s very good at getting himself out of scrapes. We no longer stretch our agents to breaking point the way we used to.”

“A lesson learned from me, no doubt,” said Bond, coolly.

“Lessons are there to be learned, especially the painful ones,” M said softly, “in the hopes they don’t get repeated through the years.”

“Well, ten years is a long time,” Bond conceded.

 _Look at us now_ , he thought, glancing at the woman walking beside him. Who would have thought their career trajectories would lead in this direction? Certainly not they, ten years ago.

“In your case, the double-O program’s loss is Q-branch’s gain,” M replied. “And for that I am immensely thankful.”

Bond gave a noncommittal hum. “Make sure to underline the consequences of that additional budget cut to the Foreign Secretary,” he said, changing the subject as they neared their destination. “Otherwise I’ll have nothing but squirt guns to arm our agents next time.”

* * *

The rains continued after Bond was finished with his day, though he’d been busy enough not to mind the twinges of complaint coming from his knee.

He’d managed to get by the meetings by speaking as few words as possible, interjecting only when necessary, and with sufficiently stinging words that put the bigwigs in their proper place as they grilled M over their budget requests. Then he’d had a brief lunch with M before going back to Q-branch.

He’d decided that he wasn’t going to ask anyone if 007 had already dropped by. He’d be informed soon enough, if that had been the case, and with no such information forthcoming, Bond concluded that the man had not in fact arrived yet.

He spent the afternoon going to and from his various sections—R&D, the shooting range, the garage, the Control Centre. Everything was going smoothly. He managed to have a word with his agents in the field; nobody had felt it necessary to blow anything up at the moment, or report that they had lost their tech, and he counted that as a win and a fitting end to a day well spent. Once upon a time he wouldn't have given a damn about losing or damaging equipment in the field, but that was before all the shite had come to roost on his shoulders back home.

“007 is now in Medical,” R finally announced when he passed by her desk at the end of his shift. “He’ll be here in an hour or so, and since your shift is over...”

Bond nodded, affecting distraction. “I’ll be off, then. Be a darling, R, and see to him, please?”

R flushed in pleasure as Bond gave her a wide smile, his entire face creasing. “Of course, sir.”

It was clear as day that she hero-worshipped him. Apparently, almost all his minions did, or so he’d been reliably informed.

Once upon a time, he thought, he might have considered going beyond light flirting with R, their working relationship be damned. He could not quite remember being that man who would have disregarded a good, professional relationship just for sex. As far as he was concerned, that man no longer existed.

He stopped by the small resto near his flat and ordered some Chinese for take-out, his usual routine. The flat was as gloomy as he’d left it. He lit the lamps, petted the cats and then proceeded to have a brief soak in his tub to soothe his knee.

He emerged from his bath twenty minutes later, hair dripping and with a towel wrapped around his waist, to hear the faint clink of glasses in the living room. Instinctively, he flattened himself against the corridor wall as he inched forward, his mind quickly going to the gun he kept stashed away in the bedroom, but it was only 007, in a dark jacket and jeans, helping himself to the drinks tray when Bond made to peer quickly into the living room.

“Ah, there you are,” said 007 brightly, looking up as Bond emerged from the corridor and stood, staring at him incredulously. “I thought I may have to go in there and announce myself—”

Bond raised a finger to silence him and, still not saying a word, he crossed the room to inspect the electronic monitor that guarded his door. Everything seemed to be in working order.

 _How the hell did you get in?_ was not something he wanted to ask this young pup.

It was clear that he needed to figure it out for himself, and 007 was not exactly being helpful when he said a tad delicately, “You may want to consider converting to biometrics, Quartermaster.”

As he drew near, 007 smiled sweetly and held up a glass for him, like a good host.

Bond finally spoke, “Hey! That’s _my_ scotch!”

He snatched the glass as 007 chuckled. “What the hell are you doing here?” he growled. “R is waiting for you in Q-branch.”

“It was so late when Medical decided they were through with me. You know how it is with honeypot missions,” 007 said smoothly. “But don’t worry, I did call R to say I’d drop by tomorrow morning. But then, I thought I’d better come to you, just to get this over and done with.”

Bond blinked as 007 trailed off, his gaze appreciative as it roamed all over Bond’s frame. “I didn’t realize you have tattoos,” 007 chirped as he spotted the one on Bond’s left deltoid, a leftover from his Navy days.

“Bloody hell,” muttered Bond, casting his eyes heavenward. Was this really happening?

“Stay there,” he barked as he turned away. “And don’t touch anything!”

“Oh, don’t leave on my account!” 007 called plaintively as Bond went to the bedroom to throw some clothes on.

He came back just in time to hear the doorbell ring.

“What the hell—” he began but 007 was already answering the door.

“I called for extra takeaway,” 007 replied calmly as he paid for the delivery. “I hope you don’t mind, Bond. I’m starving and your dinner’s much too small for two people.”

 _What the fuck,_ Bond did not say as he stood there, seething at how efficiently this man was taking over his flat, his evening, his life.

“You’d better have a damn good reason—” he said before 007 stopped him with the USB in his open palm.

“I think you have to take a look at what’s inside,” said 007 quietly. “The sooner the better. But we do have some time for a quick dinner.”

* * *

Bond hated to admit it, but 007 was right. The USB harbored a trove of information that was urgent enough for him to call M.

“Yes, Eve,” he said into the phone, his voice clipped as he tapped steadily on his computer. “I’ve decoded it and the contents will certainly mean we need to change our plans for Melbourne and Auckland, not to mention three other locations. This man’s network is far more extensive than we thought. Yes, 007 is briefing me as we speak.”

He glanced at the sofa where 007 lay sprawled, playing with the cats and watching telly. He resisted, perhaps for the umpteenth time that night, the urge to roll his eyes.

First dinner, now this. Yet he could not bring himself to tell 007 off, or to boot him out of his flat, especially since he had questions for him as he went along decoding the contents of the USB. The details were explosive, and the sooner they got processed by Bond and Bond alone, the better. 007 had been right to seek him out.

He was finally done by 1 a.m., and by then, 007 was fast asleep, curled up on his couch. Bond briefly considered waking him and sending him off in a cab, then thought better of it. What was the use?

He sighed and went into the bedroom to fetch an extra blanket and drape it over the agent. He paused as he examined those sleeping features, beautiful in repose, and so painfully young.

 _Christ,_ he thought. What the hell was he doing?

He quickly retreated into the bedroom and shut the door.

* * *

The alarm woke him promptly at six in the morning, his mind snapping to full alertness as soon as it went off.

It was going to be a busy day ahead; M was going to convene an emergency meeting. He’d best tell 007 to get ready.

Barefoot, he walked down the hall, pausing before he stepped into the living room. It was empty and, except for the neatly folded blanket on the sofa, it was as if 007 had never been there in the first place.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes:** Aaand here's the next chapter! Special thanks to our wonderful beta, **[Christinefromsherwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinefromsherwood/pseuds/christinefromsherwood)**! All the lovely art by **Alien** , please check out her twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Dramaticatart) and we hope you enjoy this! 

* * *

Then came the dream, though one could suppose that, after successfully breaking into his flat, it was only a matter of time before 007 got to invade Bond’s unconscious mind as well.

The dream was filthy, though— again-- that should not come as a surprise.

Nor was it a surprise that Bond actually liked it. Adored it, even. All of it: the heat and the rough, sexy foreplay; the familiar, urgent slide of sweat-slick bodies; the delightful sounds of his lover’s moans and the way his cock was buried deep in that tight, delicious arse.

It had been a while.

There was laughter between them, dark and rich, and a savage enjoyment as Bond plundered that lush, red mouth and took his fill of that wonderfully willing body. There was no gentleness, certainly not in the grip of his fingers on those dark brown locks as he pulled 007 in to whisper harshly in his ear the things he wanted to do to him.

God, he’d missed this— missed the giving as much as the taking, the coarseness and the playfulness. Christ, how long had it been since he’d had someone in his bed? By the standards of his past life, it was unthinkable that he’d gone so long without.

And 007 was giving him everything, and then some more.

“More,” 007 demanded as he pressed back against Bond, ruthlessly urging him on. He'd teasingly plucked Bond's glasses and they now hung slightly askew over his own nose. “Harder, Bond. Or is that the best you can do?”

The goading words, couched in that warm, honeyed voice, had their desired effect: they spurred Bond on, half aroused, half enraged. 007 turned his head back to gaze at him, breathing laughter even as he encouraged him, “there. Oh, there. Right there, Bond. Again. _Oh!”_

And _Christ,_ he could not get enough of that warm, firm flesh that held him deep within; those arms, flung him around him, holding him close; that filthy mouth that could tell such sweet lies.

“You’re the only one…the only one, Bond…”

Even while he knew better, he found himself pressing his nose into those sweat-damp curls, inhaling deeply. "Say that again,” he growled, smiling as he heard 007 laugh breathlessly.

He came awake abruptly at this point, still hearing 007’s giggles as they faded away the more he surfaced into full consciousness.

He caught himself grinding faintly against the sheets; he had not been this achingly hard in ages.

Muttering a soft curse, he curled a hand against himself, jerking ruthlessly, letting the moment rush past so that he could be done with it. His breathing harsh and spine flexing, he came in long, satisfying spurts in one cupped hand. He lay still for several minutes, eyes closed, gathering his breath back, his hand full and sticky.

He knew he must get up; he’d run out of bedside tissues as he’d not had any use for them for a long time.

He rinsed off in the bathroom, not bothering to glance at his reflection in the mirror. This early in the morning, he knew what he would find there: a tired old man with eyebags and wrinkles and greying stubble.

Instead he stared at his hands while he chased after the last fragments of the dream that had reminded him of how it felt, however briefly, to be young and alive again.

* * *

007 was due in for a fitting at 1300 hours and Bond was determined not to show any chink in his armor where the young man was concerned.

Unfortunately for him, the fitting would involve 007 trying on some specially modified pieces of underwear. Luckily for him, R was there to help out.

“Here, 007,” said R in her no-nonsense voice as she held out a flimsy bit of harness briefs. “First piece. Please try it on.”

007 stared at the material dangling from R’s fingers and glanced at Bond, a slow, knowing smile forming on that mobile, red mouth. “You factored in my suggestions?” he asked.

“Of course I did,” Bond said shortly. “Along with several others you’ve not thought of.”

The smile only grew wider. “Give it here, then. Let’s see how well it conceals a knife,” said 007, stretching out a slim, elegant hand even as he shrugged off his jacket.

He would have undressed then and there if Bond had not made a scoffing sound, half snort and half growl, before gesturing with a jerk of his head at a nearby screen that had been set up as an impromptu changing area.

The smile became a throaty chuckle. “So modest, Quartermaster,” 007 said as he slinked away, tie in hand. “Surely there’s no need for it between you and your agents?”

Bond merely rolled his eyes as R shot him a look. Given the scowl on his face, she knew better than to say anything.

Thankfully, she had her phone to occupy her. It was too bad he’d left his in the office upstairs so that he was now reduced to staring at the room’s sparse furniture. The work tablet before him had nothing that would interest him at the moment. He crossed his arms over his chest, thinking of his remaining schedule for the afternoon and impatiently waiting for 007, who took his sweet time.

At least 006 was coming in later. He’d not seen Trevelyan in ages, bundled away as he had been on a long-term assignment in Russia. They would have a lot to catch up on and he was looking forward to seeing him.

“It’s rather snug,” announced 007 as he emerged from the dressing area, and Bond snapped out of his reverie.

He had to stop himself from gaping.

Sure, he and R designed and modified the light-blue, elastic jockstrap and hosiery, but he’d not really factored seeing the way 007’s body would alter the product composition completely.

And 007 indeed had a splendid body— lithe and slender. Clad in nothing but the jockstrap that hung low on his hip, he sauntered forward, eyes fixed on Bond, lips stretching into a saucy, naughty smile as he did a small turn and preened.

R, noticing nothing amiss, said, “Give it time to settle. How does it feel now, 007?”

007 gave a considering hum. “It actually does mold perfectly to one after a moment,” he said. “Fabulous design, this.”

He gave a cat-like stretch, arching his spine and extending his arms high above his head, and Bond had to stop himself from punching out a breath. He tried scoffing instead.

“Show-off,” he muttered, though he could not stop a small smirk as well.

Q snickered as he turned around to show Bond his scantily clad posterior. He struck a provocative pose, hands folded on his head as he turned flirtatiously towards his audience, tongue out in a silly, teasing gesture.

R laughed delightedly while Bond found himself staring at his shoes, fighting the wave of heat that threatened to engulf him. He was damned if he were to be found blushing in front of this…this young _pup._

Fucking hell, what was the matter with him?

“Alright, enough,” he cut in when 007 hooked a thumb into the fine material and made to pull down a corner. “It’s clear the contraption has achieved its goal in terms of aesthetics and distraction. So now, pay attention, 007. The blade goes here…”

* * *

There were three outfits to be tried out, and by the end of it, Bond felt for the first time in months an overwhelming urge to have a drink. It was a rare occurrence in the ten years since Bond had been sober.

Still, he realized that since the new 007 had made his appearance, past impulses and instincts were gradually coming to the fore and were becoming harder and harder to ignore. This should have been alarming as well, but Bond found a part of himself relishing it, that moment of slowly becoming alive again after years of careful therapy and self-repression.

One thing was clear, though. He must be careful around 007.

Trevelyan finally arrived in the early evening.

After six months away, buried deep in his Russian assignment, he was leaner, paler, more lined but his loud laugh was still the same, along with his steely grip as he seized Bond’s hand.

“I’ve got a ton of things to say that’s best left outside the record,” said Alec with a wry glance cast on Bond after they finished with their debriefing. “Care for a pint, Quartermaster?”

Bond smiled at the man who’d helped steer him into Q branch while he recovered from one of the lowest ebbs of his life. “Of course,” he drawled. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Being with his best mate always felt like Bond could deflate for a bit. For a while he could go back to the way he’d been as he listened to Trevelyan’s adventures, his romantic scrapes.

“Of course, Novichok is all the rage over there these days,” Trevelyan said as they worked their way through their pints, safely and comfortably ensconced in a booth far from prying ears in their favorite pub not far from Six. “What Navalny got was nothing compared to what was in store for Dimitry, poor sod. Got out of there as soon as I could, and not a moment too soon. So now here we are, short of one reliable double agent, alas.”

“It was bound to happen,” Bond muttered as he nursed his drink. “I did say we ought to have pulled you out a month sooner.”

“Well, not so easily achievable, given all the travel restrictions these days,” sighed Trevelyan. “Still, I’m back. You managed to pull me out in one piece at the first opportunity. So what’s happened since I was gone?”

Bond opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, a cheery voice sounded: “Bond! I thought it was you.”

He started, head whipping to his side just in time to see Quincey Walker arriving at their table. True to his double-O status, they’d not sensed his approach until it was too late.

“Trevelyan, Walker,” said Bond as he made the curt introductions. “Or shall I say, the new 007.”

Bond pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as Trevelyan did a double take. It was to be expected, he supposed, but Walker did not miss a beat as he shook hands with Alec, jovial but firm.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, of course,” said Quincey to Trevelyan as he sidled unselfconsciously to sit beside Bond.

“And I’m sure I’ll be hearing a lot about you,” Alec quipped as he looked the young man up and down. Bond could feel him begin his assessment like one of his computers and he was intensely interested to hear what Alec would make of the pup.

He would expect a great deal of doubt and even derision, naturally. So ridiculously young. Wasn’t that how he himself had started with Walker?

Yet in the next fifteen minutes, 007’s talents became easily apparent as he smooth-talked his way through Bond and Trevelyan’s collective skepticism, effortlessly taking over the conversation so that he was able to turn the focus around to Trevelyan, and then on to Bond.

It was a feat— that much Trevelyan would acknowledge with raised brows at Bond. At any rate, Trevelyan was not immune to charm or the right sort of attention. Not flattery. Never that, and Walker was savvy enough not to go down that path. He seemed to have nailed Trevelyan’s character down when he managed to elicit laughter from the man in thirty minutes flat.

Bond stared at his mate with a sinking heart, knowing it for a lost cause as Alec relaxed into Walker’s company and even indulged himself with a bit of the latest gossip around Six. It seemed Walker had effortlessly taken over the storytelling.

“Now, him,” said Walker finally, casting Bond a meaningful glance, “I do not know much about.”

“Well, that’s hardly surprising,” said Alec rather carelessly. He was on his fourth pint, after all. “The Quartermaster has got to have a few secrets up his sleeve.”

“Ah, but the mystery,” murmured Walker even as he cast Bond an impish smile, “is what makes any of us so interesting. And alas, he doesn’t really like me enough to share even a tidbit.”

Bond rolled his eyes and decided to call it a day after his third pint. “If you’re going to spend the rest of the night gossiping about me, then I’ll be taking my leave,” he said as he slid out of his seat.

“Oh, Bond, seriously?” Alec said. “This is all just a bit of a harmless chat.”

Bond flashed him a dry look before taking his leave, as if to say, _Then you’re slipping, my friend._

Alec called an hour later, as expected, just as Bond sat himself down on the sofa at home, wondering if he ought to read a book or turn on the telly to lull himself to sleep.

“Interesting character, Walker,” said Trevelyan without preamble. “And clearly very talented and not to be taken lightly, though his initial appearance practically begs for it. It’s an advantage, I suppose. I can see why M recruited him, and if you raised no objections to his appointment, that means he’s more than capable of handling your weaponry.”

Bond grunted into the phone. He was aware of all of that. “He's got a talent for destroying my weapons, more like. And what else?”

“Well, here’s the interesting thing,” said Trevelyan, his voice turning humorous, laced with warm malice. Bond could sense his friend’s feelers were up and twitching. “He really does seem to think you hate him, or at the very least dislike him, and I have to wonder why that is, my friend?”


End file.
